


But If You Close Your Eyes

by schmulte



Category: Red White & Royal Blue - Casey McQuiston
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Hurt No Comfort, I'm Sorry, M/M, One Shot, Pompeii AU, Sad with a Happy Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-30
Updated: 2021-01-30
Packaged: 2021-03-16 07:01:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29078277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/schmulte/pseuds/schmulte
Summary: An ongoing project to CT scan the plaster casts of the victims of the eruption of Vesuvius in 79 A.D. has revealed that the cast of two embracing figures known a The Two Maidens are in fact men. The two bodies were found intertwined together, assumed to be two women based on their posture and the shapeliness of their legs. Apparently seeking comfort in the face of apocalyptic death was deemed to be a feminine impulse rather than a human one. The supposed “female contours” of the legs and later descriptions of “little rings” found on the fingers were extensions of that assumption. Examination of osteological and morphological features on the CAT scan indicates that both individuals are male and that the individual with his head against the chest of the other was a young man about 18 years old at the time of death. The other person is believed to be an adult male who was at least 20 years old when Vesuvius claimed his life.Firsprince Pompeii au
Relationships: Alex Claremont-Diaz/Henry Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor
Comments: 8
Kudos: 50





	But If You Close Your Eyes

**Author's Note:**

> I thought it would be interesting to show how different the eruption of Mount Vesuvius was for the different classes and how it affected slaves, so a CW for some talk about slavery

_The "Two Maidens" of Pompeii are Men_

_An ongoing project to CT scan the plaster casts of the victims of the eruption of Vesuvius in 79 A.D. has revealed that the cast of two embracing figures known a_ The Two Maidens _are in fact men. The two bodies were found intertwined together, assumed to be two women based on their posture and the shapeliness of their legs. Apparently seeking comfort in the face of apocalyptic death was deemed to be a feminine impulse rather than a human one. The supposed “female contours” of the legs and later descriptions of “little rings” found on the fingers were extensions of that assumption. Examination of osteological and morphological features on the CAT scan indicates that both individuals are male and that the individual with his head against the chest of the other was a young man about 18 years old at the time of death. The other person is believed to be an adult male who was at least 20 years old when Vesuvius claimed his life._

The Roman sun beats down hot on Alex's brow as he mills about the marketplace; the stone of the street, scorching from the heat, burns the soles of his bare feet. There is much excitement this morning, wives and slaves alike trading in gossip as the earth tremors beneath their feet. Some say it is an angry god. Others, the road needing to be repaved. The trample of horses, the heaviness of shoes. Alex doesn't pay it mind; he is too focused to dwell on such a small thing. Today, he has more important things to do than stay and chat with the vendors. Today, he has plans. 

The earth shakes once more beneath Alex's feet. He almost loses his balance, catches himself on a stone pillar, scraping a hand across the rough stone and drawing blood from the calloused flesh of his palm. It runs red and thick down his tanned forearm, the drops pooling on the hot ground below. A basket has fallen by him, a vase shattered on the cobblestones. Gingerly he steps around the shards, mindful of his bare feet, and continues his walk. 

The house is small, a secret, sturdy thing, used when Henry can escape his brother and Alex can escape his chores. He'll get a lashing when he returns, but it will have been worth it; he'll tell Henry he broke another plate, or won't tell him at all. He won't pry, if Alex tells him not to. 

Henry is waiting for him inside, pacing the stone floor back and forth, back and forth. Alex can't help but stop and allow himself to look. His pretty mouth is twisted into a frown; pale, nimble fingers twist at the two delicate gold rings that decorate his beautiful hands- two identical family crests, one his, one his father's. He stops when he notices Alex out of the corner of his eye, rushes over and takes his face in adorned hands. 

"Alex, are you alright? I felt the ground trembling, I thought--"

"I am fine," Alex reassures him. He brings a hand to cover Henry's own on his face, forgetting momentarily that the dark red will smear Henry's alabaster skin. He's reminded by the widening of Henry's eyes, the way he moves to grab the offending hand and stare at it as if that will make the blood clot. It's more endearing than Alex thinks it should be. 

"You are hurt."

"A scratch, Henry, that's all it is."

He watches his lover shake his head and allows himself to be pulled toward the small stone basin. Henry washes the wound with care, pink tongue poking out from between his lips in concentration. When he's satisfied, he tears a piece of his tunic- Alex winces at the sight of such an expensive fabric being destroyed -and wraps the hand, placing a gentle kiss over the bandage once he's done. 

Alex pets his good hand through Henry's hair, blonde and shining and clean, and smiles softly. There is so much devotion behind those blue eyes, and Alex believes he could drown happily in them. "When will Philip return?"

Henry sighs and leans in to the touch. "Not for hours. I wish we had more; for you, I would give all the time in the world." He punctuates his wishes with a kiss to Alex's palm. "One day. One day, when I have freed you, we will leave this place, and we will be together. I promise."

It's a familiar promise. One repeated over and over, in the mornings when they wake tangled in each other's limbs, in between fleeting kisses, pressed into the skin of a collarbone or the dip of a hipbone. Alex knows it's an unlikely promise to keep. Henry will stay beneath Philip's thumb and wed a nice Roman girl and make heirs; Alex will remain a slave until he dies- of exhaustion or heat perhaps, but not of old age. Still, it's nice to dream. To pretend that the world is as kind and forgiving as Henry believes it to be. It's almost believable, sheltered in their small house, in their bubble. Outside, they are Henry Fox Mountchristen-Windsor and Alex the slave, not given the dignity of a last name. In here, in this bubble, they are just Henry and Alex. 

"What are you thinking about, love?" Henry asks him. Alex shakes his head, slips his arms around his lover's neck and stands on his toes to brush their noses together. 

"Nothing. Just how much I care for you."

Henry's large hands slip down to hold him by the hips, elegant neck dipping down to brush their lips together. He smells of soap and olive oil and his lips taste of something sweet- figs or honey or wine. Alex tugs at the hair that curls at the nape of Henry's neck and drinks in the soft sounds he makes into his mouth. Gentle palms press against his skin through the thin tunic, thumbs rubbing in soothing circles against his hip bones. It's Henry's favorite place to touch, the sharp jut of Alex's hip. He wants to hold on and never let go. 

The house shakes around them, harder than any quake before, throwing Alex in full force against Henry's body. He's caught by strong arms wrapping firmly around his waist, pulling him against Henry's chest and tucking his head beneath his chin. The water basin shakes and cracks behind them. Alex buries his face in the crook of Henry's neck and does not move it until the shaking is over. 

Henry pulls a way, drawing a low whine out of Alex, and presses a reassuring kiss to his forehead. "Stay inside."

Alex does not do as he's told. It's his fatal flaw, especially as a slave; he is stubborn as his mother, of what he knew of her, and he does not stay inside as Henry told him, following him right out the door. He instantly wishes he hadn't. 

Black smoke curls up in a smokestack from Mount Vesuvius, thick and billowing up into the bright blue sky. It is unlike anything Alex has ever seen before; it makes him feel religious. Something this horrible can only be a punishment from a cruel and terrible god. There is no other explanation for the way his blood chills, for the looks on the faces of children as they stare at the dark cloud. A sense of something biblical. An impending doom. 

"Is it a fire?" he asks Henry, throat suddenly dry. He cannot tear his eyes away from the mountain, but he knows his love is shaking his head next to him. It is a foolish question; this is no fire. 

"I don't know." Henry's voice is barely above a whisper, and he squeezes Alex's hand hard. 

He doesn't know how long they stand there, staring. Ten minutes go by, and the sun has disappeared behind a film of black. What was once a bright August day is now cloaked in the darkness and cold of night; Alex shivers in his tunic. People have begun to pray, to scream, to flee. Some go down to the beach, others to their homes. Masters scour the streets for their slaves, and Alex can feel the way Henry's grip on his hand tightens at the sight of a familiar face scanning the crowd.

"I will not let them take you from me," Henry says, as if reading Alex's mind. "I will not."

And Alex badly wants for it to be true. "Henry--"

"I will not, Alex. You will not go back to that- that _place_. They cannot make you."

"They can." Henry is not a frightening man, not to Alex. He is soft and warm and gentle and kind, and he has never lifted a hand against him or said an unkind word. But now, the sea blue of Henry's eyes have turned dark and stormy, and his glare is murderous. He is bristled like a rattlesnake. Dangerous. Alex tugs at his hand. "Henry, let's go back inside."

Their relationship does not have many difficulties, but this is the most prominent. Henry has a last name, Henry has gold and privilege. Henry gets whatever he wants, but he does not realize that is the case with _all_ rich men. What he wants is for Alex to be free, what the masters want is for Alex to remain a slave. Unstoppable force, immovable object. 

Alex knows what it is to want something and not have it. He wants Henry, unconditionally. He wants freedom. He wants to feel his mother's arms around him and his sister's hand in his. It is difficult, sometimes, to have to remind Henry that you can't have whatever you want, no matter how badly you want it. Henry cannot grant Alex freedom through sheer power of will, and it is a thing he does not understand. 

"Henry. Please, staying out here will do nothing."

"Look at them," Henry mutters, venom on his tongue. "rounding them up while they quake in fear. What use will they be, in the dark, with so many afraid?"

"It does not matter. They are property, Henry. They cannot risk damages. Or loss."

Thunder rumbles ahead as it begins to rain- but not water. Alex frowns and puts his hand out, palm facing the sky. Small, stone pebbles fall, brushing lightly against his fingertips. They float in puddles and the large fountain of the square, light as feathers. The smell is something awful, and it makes Alex cough into his elbow.

"I...I don't understand," Henry says next to him. "How could it be raining rocks?"

People are beginning to panic more now, ducking beneath covers and covering the heads of their children. There is talk all around of boats, of safety, of escape. Of angry gods and sacrifices and prayers. Slaves are ordered to protect their masters as larger stones fall, more deadly than the small pebbles, the smell in the air drying throats and stinging eyes. Alex turns to suggest they go back inside, all the while catching the eye of his master. Dimly, he registers Henry's pushing him behind him, vice-like grip still on his other hand.

"There you are, Alex," his master says. Two guards flank him, to deal with Henry, he supposes. "I'll deal with your insolence later. Quickly now, we must go." 

Henry does not allow him to move, addressing the master himself. "He will not go with you."

The master's eyes narrow. "He is my property. He will go where I tell him. Come now, boy, before these rocks rain harder."

Neither Henry nor Alex moves. With a snap of the master's fingers, the guards are taking Alex by the arm and pulling him away. Struggling only earns him a slap across the face; the bejeweled rings on his master's hands cut his skin, and somewhere in the back of his mind he registers Henry's yelling, but his brain is too fuzzy to register the words. 

He's put to work as soon as they arrive back home, collecting gold and jewels into boxes and placing them in the weighed-down saddle bags of the horses, finding items even as the house shakes around him. The rich seem undecided about what to do- some, like Alex's master, pack up their things and leave frantically. Others scoff at the stone rain and stay in their finely made houses with slaves serving them goblets of wine. Alex should suppose he is lucky, that his master has chosen to flee; it increases his chances of surviving. But he does not want to flee with them- stay or go, he wants to be with Henry. 

The streets are too crowded to get the horses through, leaving Alex to carry the saddle bags. They weigh an ungodly amount, and his shoulders ache beneath the strain. His master pulls him along, lashes at his feet when he does not move quickly enough. The air is thick and choking, and Alex has not been gifted a cloth to hold up to his mouth like the others have. He searches the crowd, coughing, desperate for a glimpse of a gold head. 

When he finally catches it, he stops. Henry is there, in the street, searching, just as Alex had been. He is the only one flowing against the current of bodies, pushing his way through, a mortal Moses parting the Red Sea of frightened Romans. 

"Have I hit you too hard, boy?" his master spits at him. "Have you gone dull? Move!"

For the first time, Alex looks his master directly in the eye. For the first time, he straightens to full height, and he drops the bags of gold. He is going to die either way- left on the beach while his master takes a boat to safety, crushed beneath a rock, choked on smoke. If he will die, he will not die a slave. 

So he runs. He runs as fast as his bloodied feet will take him, knowing his master will care more for the gold than for him, until he reaches that gold head. He practically throws himself into Henry's arms, wrapping himself around him, Henry's hands pulling him close to support him. 

"I couldn't find you- it all happened so fast, then the crowd, I thought I had lost you--"

Alex shakes his head at his apologies and presses kisses to his nose, his cheeks, his lips. "I love you. I love you, I love you, I love you."

"I will never let myself be parted from you again. Never, Alex, I swear it."

More screams erupt around them, pulling Alex back to reality. Where they are, what is happening. He detaches himself from Henry and pulls on his hand. "We need to get inside."

Henry resists, staying rooted to the spot. "My family, we have a boat, we can go to safety."

And oh. Henry never learns, does he? 

"I cannot. They will not let me, Henry. _Philip_ will not let me."

"Then we will find another boat. I have connections, other families--"

"Other families will not let someone else's slave in their boat. I am branded, Henry, they will know who I belong to. I cannot go."

He watches Henry swallow, the bob of his Adam's apple. "Then I will not."

"Henry--"

"Never again, Alex. I swore."

Alex does not bother to argue. The look in Henry's eye says enough; he can be stubborn, too, almost more than Alex. And he can do nothing but lean up and kiss him, right there, around everyone, because he loves Henry and Henry loves him. Even as fire begins to rain down with the rocks, even as the air clouds their lungs, he kisses Henry. Even in the dark, sunless sky, in the streets now deserted, he kisses Henry. He kisses, and kisses, and kisses, until they're forced to take shelter in an alleyway. And even then, when he can feel his lungs aching and every inch of skin burning, he does not leave Henry. He lays on his side next to the man he loves and rests his head on his chest and presses kisses to his skin. He does not feel the hot air scorching his lungs when Henry's hand takes his own and slips one of the signet rings on to his left ring finger. 

"When they find us," Henry whispers to him admits the screaming and the destruction. "I want them to know what we were to each other. I want history to know that we loved each other. That I love you more than anything, Alex."

Alex does not have the strength to speak, but he does not need to speak for Henry to know he feels the same. With the last of his strength, Alex leans up to press a final, fleeting kiss to his love's lips, before he leans back down, letting the soft rise and fall of Henry's chest against his cheek lull him to sleep. He dies with a smile on his lips. 

Henry hums sadly as he looks at the plaque in front of the museum display. His index finger taps against his chin, gold band glinting in the fluorescent lighting. It makes him smile to see it- such a new thing to be wearing, with all the meaning behind it, but he hardly feels it on his ring finger. Alex's hand is in the other, squeezing, grounding him. The two plastered bodies in the display case are wrapped around each other, the outline of rings barely visible, a head resting against a chest. 

"God, can you imagine?" Alex asks him. "They had no idea what was even happening, all they knew was that they were gonna die, and they still...They must have been so scared." It's Henry's turn to squeeze Alex's hand, place a light kiss in his curls.

"I know, love," He brings Alex's clasped hand up to his lips. "Shall we move on?" 

"Just a little longer. I just want to look at them."

Henry smiles, and how can he deny such a request? He pulls Alex close to him, envelops him in his arms, and buries his nose in his hair. "Of course, my love."

He follows Alex's eyes down to the plaque again, and holding him a little tighter as he reads.

_The Two Maidens/The Lovers_

_Found together in one last embrace_

_The greatest fantasy consumed by final passions dying not alone_  
_Where lips meet lips, flesh on flesh driving the chariot home_  
_Let our last days be happy dear love, come out and play_  
_Burn with me love, consumed like the lovers of Pompeii_

_-Michael Cranford_

**Author's Note:**

> http://www.thehistoryblog.com/archives/46830  
> here is the link to the blog post at the beginning and in the summary. The pome at the end is Lovers of Pompeii by Michael Cranford


End file.
